Will North and the policeman, whose name was Tom Mayhew, converged on the haunted gate as Jonathan and Mrs Bradley came out at the top of the spinney. Jonathan called after them, and the four struggled upwards towards the sagging, white, sack-like object which was still hanging over the gate.

There was a hail from lower down the slope, and the doctor soon joined them. There was not, as Jonathan already knew, the very slightest doubt that Bill Fullalove was dead, and, the doctor and Mrs Bradley having made what inspection was possible, with great difficulty the men managed to get the body to the bungalow.

They had just contrived to get their burden indoors and on to a settee when there came an eerie sound of groaning from the next room. Jonathan guessed what it was.

‘Tiny!’ he said. The doctor, who was again bending over the dead man, straightened his back. The groans came again, a little louder, and the doctor, after one more glance at the corpse, went into the adjoining room. Jonathan followed him. Tiny was lying on the floor. The door from the garden was open and there were still the marks of a dragging body to be seen in the snow.

‘Well!’ said Jonathan, leaving it to the doctor to break the bad news about Bill. ‘What the deuce have you been up to, Tiny? And where are your dogs and cats?’

‘Curse you, Bradley!’ said Tiny, his little green eyes venomous, and, to Mrs Bradley’s trained gaze, very watchful in spite of the fact that he was obviously in very great pain. ‘Don’t stand there like an ape! Give me a hand, can’t you? – Fielding, leave me alone! I know what’s wrong! It’s my knee.’

Jonathan shrugged his wide shoulders.

‘What I can’t make out,’ he said, ‘is how you got that door open.’

‘I had to drag myself up on my sound leg,’ said Tiny, ‘and use the doorkey, of course.’

‘Who told Anstey to come for me?’

‘How should I know? – Did someone?’

‘Yes. Anstey got a typed message.’

‘A typed message? I don’t understand. – Ouch! What’s the damage, doctor?’

‘Kneecap,’ said the doctor laconically. ‘Have to get you into hospital. And, look here, Fullalove—’

‘Well? Don’t tell me I’ll never walk again, or rot of that kind!’

‘No, no. Only – well, look here, old man, it’s Bill … Yes, dead. I’m sorry, Tiny. He must have had a bad heart. The cold, you know. Too much. It packed him up, I’m afraid … Here, Bradley, let’s give him a hand. If we heave him up on to his sound leg, he can hop as far as his bedroom. Take it easy, Tiny. Take it easy, old man.’